Phantom Noir
by Vague Apparitions
Summary: 1940s AU. Sam Manson, the daughter of wealthy Jeremy and Pamela Manson, is tired of living the life of a socialite. Seeking a little excitement, she goes to a seedy bar at night, only to meet Tucker Foley, the owner of the establishment, and his friend Danny "Phantom" Fenton, a strange detective with a mysterious past. But has she gotten in a bit over her head?


**Disclaimer: **_I own nothing. The AU idea is from gothiethefairy on Tumblr._

**Author's Notes:**_ This was originally posted on my Tumblr. I decided to write something based on gothiethefairy's 40s AU idea. Before I start, let me just clear something up. There seems to be some confusion between the 20s and the 40s. The 20s was the era of prohibition, flappers, and speakeasies. The 40s was the era of noir, with stories of detectives like Dick Tracy, and of gangsters and mobs._

_My version of the AU has older versions of the characters, in their twenties. It also contains some of my headcanons, for an older Danny in particular. Now that the explanation is out of the way…_

_I don't know if I'll continue this. I might._

* * *

**"Phantom Noir"**  
**1940s AU**

In the city, there were certain places to be avoided, especially at night. The back alleys, the slums, the decrepit, hole-in-the-wall establishments — they all took on a special sort of darkness, which could only be achieved through a bad reputation and layers of grime.

The shady bar Samantha stepped into was no different. It was certainly not a place for the daughter of socially-elite Jeremy and Pamela Manson, who — in Sam's opinion — were exceedingly boring. She was tired of the polish and class, of the so-called glamour of parties and galas, of a life that revolved around appearances. She needed a little excitement, a little danger, a boost in adrenaline And the best way to find what she wanted was to seek out a place like that particular bar, which would certainly be filled with some suitably seedy characters, at an ungodly hour of the night.

Or not. The bar was nearly empty, save for the bartender and the man sitting at the counter. The man had the collar of his coat popped, obscuring his face, and he wore a wide-brimmed fedora. He didn't look up as Sam entered the bar, more concerned with his drink than her. The bartender was busy cleaning up, but eyed the woman with a mixture of curiosity and scrutiny.

"Isn't it a bit late for a lovely dame like yourself to be out, especially in this part of town?" he asked, smirking.

"What, I can't get a drink?" Sam asked, crossing her arms across her chest and trying to sound as unrefined as possible.

"Hey, I didn't say that. You can have as many as you want," said the bartender. "I'm just saying that this isn't a good place for you to be in. You might get into some trouble."

"Maybe I _want_ a little trouble."

"I don't think you _want_ trouble," the man at the counter said, without looking at her. "I've seen trouble. You don't really want to deal with it."

"Oh?" Sam asked, sitting next to him with a sly smile on her face. She was curious. "Why don't you tell me about all of that trouble, then?"

"I don't really want to," the man said.

"And why is that?"

"Because it isn't professional," he said as he took out a match and lit it. As he brought a cigarette to his lips and burnt the end, he finally turned to face Sam. The match's flame momentarily lit his deathly pale face before thinly veiling it in a wisp of ghostly smoke. Even after the match had been extinguished, it seemed as if its light remained, somehow, illuminating his features. The man had to be about her age, in his early twenties, but his hair was shockingly white. His eyes were the most vibrant shade of green that Sam had ever seen — so vibrant that they seemed to glow with a flame all their own.

The man stood, revealing that he was rather tall. Despite his height, he didn't seem to be lanky, though it was difficult for Sam to tell past his black trenchcoat. "Put it on my tab, Tucker," he said to the bartender. He glanced at Sam. "And you'd better be careful, Miss… ?"

"… Sam," she answered, not wanting to tell him her last name. "Nice to meet you."

"Phantom," he said, tipping the brim of his hat slightly. With that, he left, as silent as a shadow, slipping out of the door and into the night.

"Phantom?" Sam repeated to Tucker. "What kind of name is that?"

"Don't pay any attention to him," Tucker advised as he cleaned a glass. "His real name is Danny. He's just been really weird these past few months. Used to be way different.

"He still comes in every night. Orders the same thing every night, too. Something happened, I guess. He doesn't like talking about it, but it changed him. His hair wasn't always white, for starters. And he used to be more… I don't know…"

"More… what?"

"More… _lively_," Tucker said, staring down at the beer mug in his hands. He seemed to be deep in thought, remembering the way Danny had been before he'd started calling himself Phantom. "Nicer. More friendly. Great guy to talk to. Just… more alive, I guess. That's the best way to put it. Now, he's got that haunted look on his face most of the time and goes by a different name." He paused again, putting the glass away. "I guess you see some really sobering stuff in the detective business."

_So, he's a_ detective, Sam thought. "I'd guess so."

"Anyway," Tucker said, "I'll get you your drink, Miss Sam, if you want one. On the house — for putting up with ol' Danny."

"I'd love one."

"So," Tucker began, giving Sam a genuine, friendly smile, "what'll it be?"


End file.
